


Adopted by a stray cat

by nishiki



Series: Stray Cat [2]
Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Writer Malik
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-30
Updated: 2017-10-26
Packaged: 2019-01-07 03:39:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12224988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nishiki/pseuds/nishiki
Summary: Malik still has troubles with his work as he cannot come up with a new story to write. The presence of Altair in his life and thoughts does not make it easier.





	1. Chapter 1

Altaїr's hot and feverish kisses as he had ridden him until they both climaxed were still engrained in his memories and even in that moment, Malik had known that it was a mistake. The weather in places like Biddeford, so close to the sea, was as unsteady as it got and as quickly to change its mood as the people living in towns like these. So, as Malik woke up on a sunny morning, he did not expect it to stay this way and he was not surprised to find his bed empty again. Altaїr’s touches and kisses seemed to linger on even now, burning on his skin. He was not here, though, and once again, Malik was left behind only with the memories of the last night and them together in this bed.

Altaїr … This weird man he had once again taken home, was as hard to figure out as the meaning of life. The moment he had taken that oyster from him, Malik had known that it had been a grief mistake. He couldn't even say how it came to be that he and Altaїr had landed in his bed once again. How was it possible that something as innocent as trying an oyster led straight to sex with this lunatic?

In the moment, he had not thought about Altaїr's boyfriend. He had not thought about that he was sabotaging this relationship between those two strangers, and frankly, even if he had, he would not have cared for this dude in this moment, not with Altaїr's tongue ghosting over his collarbone or his hands on his neck. How could he be concerned with an already failing relationship that did not include him when he had someone like Altaїr in his bed?

Still, it was not okay and at least now his morals started to kick in again. »You know« He said as he looked at Buckingham who comfortably lounged on the end of the bed, completely undisturbed by the things he had witnessed during the night, after Altaїr and Malik had made him jump out of the bed, too occupied to notice the fat tomcat, contemplating whether he should bite Malik's feet or let him enjoy the feeling of security for a moment longer. »it's really not my fault if he and his boyfriend have problems, is it? I mean, if he decides to cheat on his boyfriend with me then it's his thing to deal with - not mine, right? I mean, yes, I could have said no to him and be the bigger person, I guess. But then again, if he has a go on someone like me so freely and without concern, then clearly I am neither the first stranger he fucks nor am I the only one.« 

Buckingham clearly did not care as he started licking his paw only to jump up and leave him behind with his thoughts to go and venture to his food bowl. Malik had not looked, but somehow he was sure that Altaїr had filled it again. »He’s like a cat, I guess. He comes when he wants to and gets what he wants before leaving again.«  

Had Buckingham been offended by this statement, he clearly did not let it on and rather planned his revenge - probably for a moment when Malik would let his guard down so that he could ram his fangs into his calf. 

Still, his opinion held strong about Altaїr and although it was not his fault when Altaїr cheated on his boyfriend, the next time, he would not just go along with it. He had other things to worry about, after all. He needed to get this story going finally and yet he still had no idea what he wanted to write. Maybe he should try something different for once. But what? Fantasy? Romance? None of that seemed to fit his agenda. 

In other words: He had not once written a love story of any kind and not even touched a fantasy novel since the death of Fred Weasley broke his heart into thousands of little pieces. So, as he sat up in his bed, a deep sigh left his mouth and his eyes fell upon his laptop on the desk not too far away from his bed. He could not ignore his work forever and he was very aware of that fact and yet, he could not bring himself to even move when thinking about writing. His fear of the blank page had reached a new high and the only times he had not thought about his career or Haytham Kenway or his failing story was when he had been with Altaїr, as sappy as that sounded. 

Well, the reason as to why that was was nothing he needed to wonder about too much. Altaїr was attractive, he was captivating, he was new, he was an enigma - something Malik would love to figure out but told himself that there was neither time nor reason to do so. 

The saddest thing about all of this was, however, that he could not even blame Altaїr for his lack of progress - which was a damn shame. He would have loved to put the blame on him. Instead, he threw his body down into his mattress again as he quickly decided to be a child for a few more moments. A well-rested, twenty-eight-year-old child. 

»Okay, come on, Malik, that's getting ridiculous now. Get your ass up.« He moaned to himself and yet he still needed five more minutes to finally follow through with it. He did not feel even a bit more productive after he got up from his bed. He just felt cold now that he stood naked in his apartment. He felt cold and miserable and judging by the sounds coming from the kitchen, Buckingham just threw up all over the tiles. What an asshole. 

※※※※※※※

Had he felt pathetic the first time after he had slept with Altaїr? Yes. Yes, he had. There was no shame in admitting that.  Was he feeling pathetic now as the day came to a close and there was still no sign of Altaїr? Well … Yes. And in admitting that, there actually was a lot of shame - at least to Malik. He felt like some stupid love-struck teenage girl in a Hollywood movie. Worse even, he felt stuck in Gilmore Girls, his younger brother’s favorite guilty pleasure TV Show of all times. 

»I need help.« He sighed when he finally threw his glasses on his desk. »Seriously.« And that not only because he was desperate to get some work done for real now. Writers' block was one hell of a bitch. And he was willing to admit that, though the sex had been a welcome distraction from his normal life, it had not helped him to straighten out his mind at all. If anything it had made it all just more complicated because it had taken his mind even more from his duty and that sucked ass. Just as the email Haytham Kenway had sent earlier that day. 

The tone of the email, though as sophisticated and polite as always coming from a well-educated man like Haytham Kenway, couldn't have been clearer. »Get your ass to New York immediately.« Malik repeated once again staring at his laptop in awe.  _ Immediately _ . Being the smart-ass that he was, he felt the itch to write back and ask what exactly Haytham might mean with that word. After all, it was quite the tour from Biddeford Maine to New York City, right? Plus, if he were to go to New York … Kadar would insist on seeing him. Well, he couldn't deny that he sometimes missed the midget, but he would deny it anyway until his dying day if someone would ever provoke him like that. 

He knew, of course, that Haytham wanted to talk to him about his new project. By that point, Haytham was done offering help for the new project. He was his agent, yes, but he was a businessman no less and about to take over the company as soon as his father would finally retire. And Malik? Well, he would get a new agent and judging by the luck he usually had in life, Haytham would hand him over to his son just like that so that, from that moment onwards, Connor could take the job of chewing Malik up and spitting him out every time he would miss his deadline. 

Haytham might think his son would not be capable of doing just that. More often than not had  _ Mr. Kenway _ told him that Connor was missing the much-needed edge in this profession, that he was missing a certain kind of sharpness in dealing with his clients. He meant, of course, that Connor was, at least in his eyes, much too nice. Malik, however, thought that Connor would be very capable of doing this job just right. He was clever and hard-working, and, if needed, he would be able to slam his hands on the table to get someone to work their ass off. 

When was the last time Malik had worked his ass off?

Funny enough, his thoughts shifted back to Altaїr and they stayed with him until he reached New York. Pathetic. Yes, this word started to really grow on him now. He blamed his lack of sex or a real relationship, though. Coming back to New York, always felt weird to him. Maybe that was only one reason more why he felt that pathetic. Sure, he had grown up in this state and lived quite a few years in the  _ Big Apple _ , yet, after he decided that he needed a change of scenery to get his mind straightened out again, coming back had never been a real question. He paused at this thought and listened to the heavy New Yorker traffic, of cars honking and taxi drivers shouting. 

A part of him had known that he would not move back here as he moved to Biddeford and still he had just taken the first flat he got his hands on instead of buying something he could call home for a long time. He wasn't rich but he wasn't exactly broke either. He could have found himself a nice tidy home a little removed from the harbor and the constant smell of fish. He hadn't, though. Was a part of him still expecting to go back, maybe? 

Anyway, he couldn't help but sigh as he now stood in front of that building. The name of the company was spelled out in front of him attached above the large entrance doors in golden letters.  _ E. Kenway & Sons Publishing _ . The skyscraper was proof to the success of the company. Malik always felt small in front of this building and he was unable to shake off that feeling. And yet, he still remembered the day he first set foot into this building after that manuscript he submitted to a contest the company held garnered some attention. Looking back on it, he never had resumed his work on this very story. It had been not awfully long, one hundred pages at max. The story of a young assassin that lived through the crusades in Syria - nothing too big, nothing too important and more of a passion project. Back in the day, he had been obsessed with that exact time period and the myth around the Hashashin back in that time. Mr. Kenway Senior had liked it enough to support him, however. 

That was ten years ago and now, as he slowly walked on to enter the building, he could not help but feel as if he had let him, Mr. Kenway Senior,  down quite a bit. Back then, he, apparently, had shown great promise in his talent - and that really was nothing someone could learn at University. But instead of continuing like this, instead of finally giving his Assassin a name for a start, he had rather started writing crappy crime novels like so many other people with a typewriter before him. 

»Mr. Al-Sayf?« A voice interrupted his thoughts rather rudely. Malik had been in the midst of beating himself up about some wasted opportunity from over ten years ago, could this man that was calling out his name not see this? »Mr. Al-Sayf!« A little more urgent this time, which compelled Malik to stop after entering the foyer of the building and turning his head to the right side, from where the voice had reached his ear. 

In the beginning, Malik had always tried to make a good impression when he would come to this very place. He had worn suits and his reading glasses. Eventually, the suits became a button down shirt and slacks, then jeans and a blazer, and now just jeans, a loose fitting shirt and his favorite jacket. At least he was still wearing his reading glasses. He caught his reflection in one of the large mirrors that were decorating the foyer as he turned his body to follow his head. He looked like a slob. 

Unlike young Mr. Kenway, who hurried up towards him, his dark long mane hardly tamed by the soft ponytail he was wearing it in and his brown skin almost looking pale in the neon light, which caused the freckles on the brink of his nose and under his eyes to stand out even more. Connor Kenway was still very young, but he had grown quite a bit since Malik had last seen him. The suit he was forced to wear - that he was forced to wear it was crystal clear by the look on his face alone - was sharp and well-tailored, but Malik would have expected nothing else. Not with a father like Haytham around to take care of everything, especially in this regard. 

Haytham Kenway was a man who was attaching great importance to how a person looked and behaved. Connor had gone through quite a strict and tough upbringing by his father, his mother had died in his early childhood during a house fire. Rules, etiquette, home teachers after school, elite schools - all of that and yet in front of Malik stood a young man who could not look more unhappy with all of this would he try. Yet, Connor Kenway extended a hand and offered him a smile that showed a row of pearl white perfect teeth - with the exception of a pair of rather pointed and sharp looking canines that gave Connor a touch of something that reminded people of a young wolf. He clearly got this from his father. 

»Malik.« Malik replied as he shook the boy’s hand. The age gap between them was not nearly as huge as he sometimes felt when looking at this man who now towered over him by at least three or four inches, and Malik had to remind himself of that fact. »We already settled on first names, Connor, remember?« 

He enjoyed seeing the young man getting off track after just this little comment from Malik, but Connor was quick to come back to himself as he nodded and gestured towards the elevators in the back of the foyer. »My father awaits you in his office.« Not Edward then, huh. Well, that could either be a good or bad sign. Malik was, naturally, a very pessimistic guy. That was not a choice but rather how he was born. Being pessimistic was the core of his existence it seemed and yet, he could only hope that Haytham wanted to talk to him because he was still not done giving him chances. Maybe it was silly to hope for something like this.

What if Haytham was done with him finally? What if the Kenways decided to cancel their relationship with him once and for all now? What would he do with his life? Well, he could always write but to what end? Ever since he had become a  _ professional _ , ever since his books got published, a part of him had lost interest and passion about writing. Now it was his  _ job _ and no longer just his freakish little hobby people could make fun of in school. Now it was something he had to do for a living, apparently. He was expected to write. 

When was the last time he had written something only for himself or just because he wanted to? Like the story of his still nameless Assassin. Sometimes he missed the guy.

He followed Connor to and into the elevator to get up to the fourteenth floor where Haytham’s office was located at the end of a white hallway with a polished dark grey parquet floor. The glass door of Haytham's office had never looked so intimidating to Malik. Then again, Malik decided that he was not a person that got easily intimidated by virtually anything - which was, of course, not true at all but a lie he liked to tell himself. Oh, he had been terrified many times in his life before and the moment he had come out to his parents as gay was only one of them. Not to mention his first interview on a small TV network as his first book got published. Of course, everyone wanted a piece of the young author and more than enough people made the grave mistake to praise him for things he had yet to accomplish. 

Connor left him after he announced him to his father - after a curt knock on the glass door, Connor had simply poked his head inside and told his good old dad that Malik was here now. Needless to say, Haytham’s mouth had thinned at his son’s, in his eyes, unprofessional behavior but gestured for Connor to let Malik in. The office was still as pristine and orderly as Malik remembered it. 

The same dark grey parquet flooring that adorned the hallway was covering the floor of the office, the walls as white as snow with not a single stain to be seen. The far wall of the office behind Haytham's desk was nearly ripped away by large windows that allowed a decent enough look over Manhattan. Haytham's desk was made out of dark polished oak wood, as far as Malik could tell, large and heavy looking. It was probably the most old-fashioned of the items in this room. Everything else was shiny metal and new. As Malik closed the door behind him, Haytham seemed to be engulfed in his work still, but shortly he pointed at one of the comfortable leather armchairs across his desk, the universal sign for Malik to sit. A little he felt like a schoolboy who had been called to the principal's office as he did just that. The rebellious streak in his mind didn't want to comply at all, but he knew it couldn't be helped. 

»So, I take it your new book makes great progress, right?« Haytham suddenly erupted in his strong British accent that his son was missing entirely as he took his piercing blue eyes that he got from his own father from the paperwork in front of him, only to lean back in his leather chair a little, his arms resting comfortably on the armrests and his fountain pen still between the fingers of his right hand. Long hair seemed to be the trend in the Kenway family, as Malik once again noticed. Haytham’s hair was not nearly as long as his son’s, of course, but long enough that he had to tie it back still. The first grey streaks that had snuck up on Haytham during the years did not escape Malik’s eyes, just like the first very few grey hairs in his dark brows. Would he ask Haytham about it, he would certainly tell him that either Malik or Connor was the source of his grey hairs. After all, Haytham was far from being an old man. He was in his early fifties and Malik knew that the sharp black suit he was wearing betrayed the strong body underneath.

»Well« Malik started and for once, he did not know what to say. Usually, he was a smart-ass and he always had something to say. But what now? »It's a little difficult at the moment.« Even in his own ears that sounded pathetically weak. There this word was again. Pathetic. By this point, Malik was almost certain this very word would be the epitaph on his tombstone. 

»Difficult how? Did your laptop break? Were your files corrupted? No backup?« It did not feel good at all to sit here like this and to have to explain to Haytham Kenway why the hell he still had no story to speak of after months of time. 

»I have trouble finding a theme.«

»Crime. That's your theme.«

»I would like to try something new.« 

»Seems to work out perfectly.«

»Listen, I can't just switch it on or off as I want to! You want something good from me, right? Then give me time and I give you something good, but I can't just force just another stupid little crime story out like this. And even if I would - you saw what little it did for me! My books are collecting dust on the shelves.« It felt terrible to say it as it was. It was maybe even a little humiliating for him as he did. »Every great author needs a break once in awhile!« The slight, almost unnoticeable twitch of Haytham’s left eyebrow told Malik all he needed to know about what the Brit was thinking in this second.  _ But you are no great author, are you? _

Hell, that was not how he had imagined the life of a writer to be. Well, what had he expected it to be like? Looking back on his younger and more idealistic self, he had maybe expected it to be a little more glamorous. Granted, he had never been under the assumption that being a writer meant being rich and famous, having a nice big house and a crap ton of friends. No, he had always known that being a writer meant hard work, sleepless nights and probably a drinking problem somewhere along the line. People like J. K. Rowling, George R. R. Martin, and Stephen King were the exception to the rule. Still, maybe he had been just a little blinded by the examples in the media. Well, he had been young and naive. Now, with twenty-eight years of life experience under his belt, he could see this world for what it really was. Big companies like this here, people like Haytham Kenway were the ones who made the big money off of the work of people like him. That sucked and it wasn't right, but Malik was not naive about it either. He knew that he was unable to change this system. Even a lifetime of fighting against the system would not be enough.

Haytham remained silent for a moment longer and almost appeared to be thinking about Malik's words in all honesty, before he took off his reading glasses and leaned forward, bracing his forearms on his desk and the paperwork before him as he leaned his chin on his folded hands. »Malik, I will be honest to you. I know that it is not as easy as I make it seem. The creative process is a fragile one at best - as are the minds of most authors. My job is it to not only help you sell your work but to look out for you and the state of your mind as well.« Malik opened his mouth to say something against Haytham’s words immediately. Maybe he even felt just a little affronted that Haytham was treating him like an incompetent child or had the audacity to claim his state of mind might be in danger, but he was cut off before he could even form a coherent sentence. 

»Don't worry, you are one of the last people I know whose state of mind might be in some form of danger, in my opinion at least. But I see that you are struggling since you left New York - or rather since your last book. The fans were not too keen on the ending you gave your detective anyway and I think we all hoped you would revisit Detective Becker once again. But the last draft you sent me … Well, Malik, I don't want to destroy the creative process and I’m sure you have something glorious in mind, but a romance novel? That is clearly not your forte. I believe you should go back to Detective Becker and give him another chance to sell you some books. Your fans loved him, after all.« Haytham was right, the fans had loved him. Well, the few fans Malik had. They had been outraged after his last novel after he had ended the series around Detective Becker. Never in his life had Malik gotten so much hate mail than after this book.

»I have enough of him. I can't stand this guy a second longer.« Malik sighed and drove a hand through his hair. »I thought about this myself, Haytham and the truth is, I’m stuck. Yes, romance clearly is not my cup of tea, but I don't want to be just one more crime author in a sea of thousands of them. I want to write something with meaning.«

»Then, I think, you should better start your work, Malik.« Haytham sighed. »It is the decision of this company to grant you one more chance but none after that. I spoke to Mr. Kenway Senior about this situation and we came to the decision to give you one more month to come up with an idea and a rough outline of the story at the very least. If you fail to do so, your contract with  _ E. Kenway & Sons Publishing _ will be abrogated.«

 

**-End of Chapter 1-**


	2. Chapter 2

One of the best things in the world was to fall into a freshly made bed after a long hot bath when the bed sheets still smelled like detergent and softener. For Malik, this feeling came right after sex. Both feelings he did not get to experience this night as he fell in his hotel bed. A shame, really. He would have nothing against a nice hot bath, freshly washed bedsheets, and a warm naked body beside him right now. Not after a day like this. Of course, he should have expected something like what had happened with Haytham and a part of him had. He wasn't that stupid, after all. He had known that it was just a matter of time until the Kenways would lose their patience with him - and rightfully so, he figured. 

Still, Haytham's words had struck quite the chord in his very core and maybe that even led him to venture into that bar down the street to get hammered in the first place. Originally, he had thought to maybe phone his little brother and stay a day longer in New York so that he could go out and do something fun with the midget, but then again, after that conversation with Haytham, he had not been too fond of the idea of having his brother’s ridiculously owlishly large blue eyes staring at him and questioning him about the reason behind his trip to New York.

For now, he just wanted to rest his head on the way too soft and fluffy pillow, ignore his buzzing head, and catch some sleep before he would leave as early as possible tomorrow morning. He had only one month to come up with something that was maybe good enough to make a full-length story with a little bit of extra work. He had writing to do and no time to call his brother for some stupid little adventure. He had not even time to think about Altaїr or why the boy had left him behind like this once more before he had even woken up. Hell, if he wouldn't know any better he would say Altaїr was a little like Cinderella and that he had to leave after sex before morning arose. Maybe he would transform into an ugly duckling otherwise. 

»It's better like this anyway, right?« He sighed to himself although he imagined that he was talking to the freshly painted white ceiling that was patiently listening to him rambling. He could still smell the faint chemical stench of the paint lingering in the air, which prompted the question why the ceiling had been retouched in the first place. Crumpled paint? Stains? If stains - what stains? Had the paint turned yellow because of age? Blood maybe? Perhaps someone had murdered someone else with an ax in this very room and the blood had spurted all over the ceiling. 

That was probably years of writing crappy crime novels speaking. 

»I don't have time for an affair like this anyway - Especially if there is a third party involved. I don't have time for unnecessary drama. I have to focus on my work, otherwise, I won't have work for much longer.« And what then? He had never dared to ask that question. But what if he would no longer have a contract with this company? He could still always write, of course, but what would he do for a living? Of course, he was not too crappy with his hands but he had never really learned a trait. His parents had a farm and he had grown up working on the farm so, he guessed, he could always go and look for work on the nearest farm but that possibility was just not very appealing. He had hated this work and this life. Maybe he would be able to find work at the harbor. He could sell oysters or fish, he guessed. Then again, his face was not the most friendly one and people would probably not want to buy something from someone as miserable looking as him. Even when he would smile at people, most strangers would turn away in uneasiness.  

Well, wasn't that just great? He would, undoubtedly, end up under a bridge. 

As he fell asleep with his clothes still on that night, he dreamed of the desert, funnily enough, and as the next morning hit with rainstorms and dark clouds he couldn't help but wonder just why he had dreamed of the desert and of thin spindly towers rising into the sky in the distance. He had never been anywhere but America, as sad as that might be for some but he had never quite felt the need for traveling places around the world unlike most kids in his school at the time. He had never made big plans of where he wanted to go and what he wanted to see. His imagination had always been enough and now it was the one thing he could not depend on any longer as it seemed. 

He lay in his bed for a moment longer and tried to think of his dream and remember the details. He could almost feel the sunlight burning on his skin now, felt the sweat dripping from his brow, his thick linen clothes heavy and itchy against his skin. The white pointed hood that he had drawn over his scalp had been enough to shield his brain from the sun and prevented it from being fried but he had been itching to take it off while a voice in the back of his mind had urged him not to. It hadn't been safe. His pursuers must not see his face at all costs! He had been driven by this thought and by his mission alone. And his mission … His mission … Yes, what was this mission of his anyway? To go back safely. But go back to where? To the fortress.  _ Home _ .

As he tried to wrap his brain around it, the fortress started to take shape before his eyes, a huge, heavy stone building that was towering over a small village at the foot of a mountain on which the fortress itself sat with high rising defense towers and a heavy iron gate. He could see banners blowing in the wind from the towers. The banners were red and white and withered by wind and rain. In his mind, he came closer to the fortress and the closer he came, the more he heard of the world behind the strong walls surrounding not only the castle above but also the village in the valley below. He could hear laughter and voices chatting away their days on the marketplace. He heard cows and horses and children playing in the dirt. He could hear the orders that were barked in the distance - a firm teacher who was trying to get his novices to do what they were told. And above all of that, he heard the screech of an eagle that was circling above this secluded world that Malik so desperately wanted to reach now. 

A knock on the door made him jump and too late he realized that he had fallen asleep again. The maid was already half inside the room as he sat up in surprise. He should have checked out already.

On his drive back to Maine, he tried not to think about his dream again - not because he was afraid that he might fall asleep once more, but mainly because he felt that it might not be good for him to pursue this dream any further. He had to think about more important things. A theme for his next novel would be nice for the start. And what if he would return to Detective Becker? He had sworn to himself that he wouldn't but if that was what would bring food on his table … Well, sometimes pride had to be buried in order to survive. 

Still, last time he had written about that horrible douchebag, it had taken him almost a year because he had accepted every excuse in the book to not write about him. Maybe he could find a way to redefine this asshole. He would have made him gay had he not known that the public would not have taken too kindly to a revelation like that. 

But no matter how much he tried to focus on the task at hand, his mind always shifted back to the fortress and the desert. Was this the nameless Assassin who still tried to lure him in? But a story about him would never work out. Every time Malik had thought about his Assassin, he had come out as a complete and utter asshole, an overly confident and proud dick to everyone around him. Too smug for his own good. A little the Assassin reminded him of Altaїr now that he was thinking about it. Altaїr was just as cocky as he envisioned his nameless Assassin to be. 

But to hell with it. The whole point of why the nameless Assassin was still nameless even in his head was so that he would not get to have a story to tell. He had been meant to be silent and deadly, the protagonist of a short story that showed nothing but the inner darkness of humankind and the justice that might lie in blood and a blade. He was not meant to have a name. He was not meant to have a story. But he was very persistent even after all those years.  _ Especially  _ after all those years, perhaps. 

As he thought about it now, it was almost as if he wanted his story to be told, as if he was whispering in Malik's ear at night, begging him to tell his story once and for all so that he would be able to find peace. Malik knew only one thing for certain and that was that he would never find any peace of mind if he would continue thinking like this. 

He arrived at the fortress, his apartment that suddenly looked even dingier and skew-whiff than before, as the sun was already sinking over the harbor of Biddeford. In the distance, he heard the horn of a ship faintly, the last greeting of the day before silence would fall upon the town. After he had opened the front door to the house, he almost stumbled over a package for his next door neighbor. Oddly enough, he had never seen that guy until now. Well, in other words, Malik had never made the effort of introducing himself to his neighbors and they had returned that lackluster attitude towards general politeness - for which he was quite thankful. The last thing he wanted was nosy neighbors. 

The stairway felt cold and moist, which was not all that unusual considering the close proximity to the harbor. In the winter months, it would probably get really cold inside those apartments and Malik would burn through his money just by the costs for the heater. If he could still afford the rent until then that was. Maybe he was just slightly more melodramatic as usual.

Almost he had expected to find Altaїr in front of his door, even though he could not properly determine why that was or why that would be the case anyway. But as he only found his own wooden door with the peeling paint on it, he was just slightly more disappointed than he cared to admit. »This is getting ridiculous, Al-Sayf.« He chided himself quietly under his breath as he unlocked his door and opened it.

The first thing that happened after he opened his door was that Buckingham walked out of the darkness only to brush against Malik's legs as he stepped inside. He was hungry, of course. The second thing that he noticed was the gush of cold wind that was blowing right in his face as he closed the door and locked it behind himself. Had he forgotten to close the windows before he had left? 

Then again, he never left his apartment when he was not absolutely sure that he had closed all windows or switched off the stove. Would he be surprised to find out that someone had broken into his apartment and stole his stuff? Absolutely not. No, it would actually fit quite well into the general theme of his life, he assumed. 

Before he was searching through his apartment to find out if someone had stolen every little thing that might be of worth, however, he switched on the light and followed Buckingham into the kitchen to feed him. To his biggest surprise, however, his bowl was already filled and the kitchen window was wide open. »You know what, you lazy beatnik? Since your window is open anyway you could at least have the decency to go out and hunt your food down yourself like normal cats do.« He sighed as he walked towards the window to close it. Instead of answering him, Buckingham slammed his face into his bowl to feast upon his meal - as if he had not done so before Malik's arrival. »You're getting fat.« Even that statement did not seem to phase his cat all that much and suddenly Malik wished he could have the same attitude towards life as Buckingham. 

With a sigh, Malik finally turned around to have a proper look through his apartment. There was no hurry in his steps as he walked through his own four walls. After all, if there had been a burglary there really was no point in hurrying now anyway, was there? If there had been a burglary, the damage would have been done already no matter how much he would hurry to look around or call the cops.

As he was rummaging through his kitchen and living room he noticed that everything was still in the same places he had left his stuff in and since there was nothing that was worth stealing inside his bathroom, Malik went straight to his bedroom instead. He stopped dead in his tracks, however, as he saw the body that was lying curled up on top of the covers in the light that was streaming inside from the living room. He didn't need to switch on the light inside the bedroom. He knew perfectly well who was lying in his bed. The real enigma now was how he came in. The window. Of course, the window. But how had he opened it from outside and who in their right mind would do something like this anyway? There was only one conclusion Malik came to: This guy was beyond crazy. 

Sadly, the thought of having to deal with someone who was potentially insane did not even frighten Malik anymore. He had nothing to lose anyway, had he? He might as well step closer and find out if Altaїr would kill him with an ax. 

To his surprise, he did not even need to get close to wake him up because as he switched on the light, Altaїr jolted awake as if being hit with electricity. He did not jump out the bed though or at least had the decency to look uncomfortable now that Malik had caught him breaking into his apartment like this as every normal person would probably have. Instead, he just rubbed sleep out of his eyes and looked as if it was perfectly normal for him to be here. 

The first thing Malik noticed about Altaїr was, however, the black eye he was sporting and although he had other things to worry about, although he should rather ask him why the fuck he was here in the first place, his mind wandered to the source of that black eye instead. Had his boyfriend maybe found out about Altaїr cheating and beat him? No matter how much he could understand how furious that other dude might be, violence was never the right answer in a situation like this. Then again, Malik felt the urge to resort to violence quite strongly at the moment as he was looking down on the intruder who had the audacity to even smirk at him now. 

»Oh good, you’re back.« He yawned and stretched his arms over his head wherein his shirt and hoodie slipped up just enough to reveal a bit of tanned skin and the hints of muscle lying underneath his clothes. Malik knew Altaїr's body by now quite well - maybe even more so than he really should after having been with him only two times by now, but at least he knew what beauty was hidden under this ugly white hoodie Altaїr liked to wear. »I already wondered when you might be back. I fed your cat.«

»I noticed.« Malik replied dumbfounded. There was much he wanted to say, many things waiting for him to spit out and right into Altaїr's face, but the way the other guy was looking at him now without a care in the world for his behavior or the fact that he had literally broken into Malik's flat was just enough to erase all logic from his brain for a moment. Suddenly, he was the one who felt like the intruder, as if he was the one in the wrong. »How the hell did you get in anyway?« He finally breathed and drove a hand through his black hair. All he wanted to do was set up his laptop on his desk near the bed and start working and yet he had to deal with a crazy guy, apparently. A man, worse even, of whom he knew absolutely nothing despite the fact that he was either working in or owning a bar, despite apparently working as an oyster salesman on the fish market too and that he had a boyfriend.

»I cracked open the door of course.« 

Of course, Malik thought as he finally gave up and sank down on his bed with an exasperated sigh. He would laugh under different circumstances because Altaїr still did not seem to see anything wrong in what he had done. Instead of confronting him about it, however, Malik decided to point to his face and thus the black eye he was sporting. He didn't want to discuss why or how Altaїr had broken into his flat and why he had thought this to be a good idea. He wanted to relax, to just arrive home and relax from his trip. All of this was insane and idiotic but somehow Malik didn't really care and that thought alone frightened him a bit. He should be livid, shouldn't he? »What's the story?«

Altaїr looked puzzled at first before he realized what Malik meant, then a big grin spread over his face again. »I got into a little brawl at a bar in town.« He smirked. »You should see the other guy. I think he learned his lesson. No one steals the last peanuts from me and gets away with it.« 

Malik came to the conclusion that Altaїr, the man he had decided to fuck two times already and who was now comfortably lounging beside him on his bed after he had broken into his home during Malik's absence, was indeed crazy. The one thing he had to determine now was if it was the good or bad kind of crazy. »Let me guess: You were drunk as you decided it was a good idea to break into my apartment.« 

»Maybe a little.« Altaїr huffed a laugh before he inched closer and for a moment Malik was almost convinced that Altaїr was going for a kiss there. He didn't, though. »Well, although I beat the other guy up quite a bit … He called for his friends and followed me and that was the safest place for me to go, I guess. So … Well, maybe I could crash for a few days? I promise you won’t even notice me.«

Somehow Malik doubted that he meant what he promised and yet, despite the fact that his brain was yelling at him to be angry and throw out this crazy man, Malik himself felt a small smirk approach. Maybe he was losing his mind himself. It had been a matter of time anyway, hadn't it? All writers were a bit cuckoo.

»I thought very thoroughly about it and came to the conclusion that you are a class A idiot.« Malik finally answered as he turned his face towards Altaїr fully, the grin on his face betraying his actual words. »But yes, you may crash for a few days.« 

 

**-End of Chapter 2-**


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just wanted to leave a quick thank you here for those lovely people who commented on this story this week! I really would have procrastinated a little while longer because I was so involved in another fic and did not quite feel the inspiration to continue just yet. Thanks to you lovely people I was inspired again. So thank you very much <3 <3 <3

As he had agreed on taking Altaїr in for a little while, he had not really thought about the consequences that would inevitably come with this grandiose decision. He would be honest in admitting to that mental success - at least to himself, although he would deny being the responsible party until he would be resting on his deathbed. He should have probably known that having Altaїr in his flat for more than just one night could only end in a mental breakdown on his end because usually, people like Altaїr were immune to stuff like that. He probably couldn't even fathom that there was this slight possibility that Malik could be annoyed of him. Well, however, in his defense, he had not really suspected to have Altaїr in his flat for more than maybe one or two days at most. If it really had been just the fact that he had been hiding from the people that he had pissed off in that bar, he should have been good to go after two days at most. 

However, as Malik looked up from his laptop now and glanced across the living room, which he had declared his office for the day as he had sat down on the small desk and chair he had set up in one corner of the room, Altaїr was still there. Two weeks had gone by and Altaїr was still here. He would not complain about the sex almost every single day, of course, but having Altaїr here with him did not mean just fun and games. He had to cook for two and clean up for two, despite the fact that Altaїr seemed quite the neat freak. Well, who would have thought! What really bothered Malik was that Altaїr was getting along far too well with Buckingham. And … Well, maybe his excessive training routine. The boy was out of the house every morning at dawn to run himself tired through town and when he would come back  _ home  _ he would be sweaty and in need of a shower. Well, but this was most certainly not the only bit of training he did. 

Malik had been quick to realize that Altaїr was a talented dancer indeed and that he was doing parkour in his free time. Free time, was another thing that was concerning to him because Altaїr seemed to have far too much free time on his hands for Malik's taste. It was almost scandalous for no working adult should be allowed so much time for their hobbies. Whenever he was not out on the fish market to sell fish and oysters, he was somewhere else doing painting jobs as it seemed, judging by the stains on his jeans. And whenever he was not doing any of that, he was either training outside or he was in Malik's flat. 

By now, he had grown accustomed to the fast electronic violin music Altaїr liked to listen to. He was sure that he even knew the name of the artist. It was a girl, that much he did know. He actually quite liked the music, especially that one track Altaїr kept listening to. It had quite the oriental influence that made Malik think far too much about Sheherazade. And no, it was not even that music that would keep Malik from writing because it was so distracting - quite the opposite actually. It was Altaїr. This man was a problem and Malik had no clue how long he could deal with him any longer as he tried not to look at him right now. 

How was a man supposed to keep control over one's boner when there was another man practicing some dance routine half-naked in his living room? A man, he might add, who was equally hot as he was mysterious. Oh, for fuck’s sake! His chest was already glistening ridiculously from sweat again and somehow, Malik felt personally affronted by this sight alone. Altaїr was in damn good shape and that was no secret. The worst part about all of this was probably only that Altaїr knew quite well how damn sexy he was when he would move like a snake that was conjured up by a flute. 

Needless to say, Malik had hardly written a word ever since Altaїr decided to settle in with him like a parasite or the quite physical version of a Netflix-leech. However, compared to Altaїr, Malik decided that he felt like a useless fat blob who was sitting on his fat ass far too much. Then again, he was a writer. He was supposed to sit on his fat ass the entire day and do nothing except writing and shovel crisps into his mouth. Still, although he had never had a problem with doing just that, now that Altaїr was here, he didn't dare to. 

There was another thing bothering him though. Altaїr was still coming and going as he pleased very much like a cat and that Malik did not like one bit. He liked stability and rules. He liked to know where things were and what the people in his life would do at certain days or times.  It wasn't so much that he would worry about Altaїr. However, he could not deny that he still thought about that other guy Altaїr had kissed in front of that bar. If that had not been his boyfriend then how many men was he seeing despite Malik? Were there any other guys? And why the hell would he care? It was not like they were a couple, after all.

»You're staring again.« Altaїr's voice took him by surprise and made him almost drop his empty coffee cup.

»I was just wondering if you have a job or if you are a professional hobo.« Malik replied quickly to hide the fact just how startled he was by Altaїr's words. What a prick. Altaїr almost lost his balance as Malik turned his body towards him sitting on his chair. But instead of being affronted, Altaїr just laughed.

»What makes you believe that I don't have a job? I mean, you've seen me work.« Altaїr grinned and of course, that prick had absolutely no idea what that grin really did to Malik. Still, Malik only snorted at Altaїr's choice of words.

»Work, yeah, right.« He huffed. »I've only seen you hang around in parks and alleys and at the harbor like a creep, and the few times I did see you do something similar to working was at the fish market the other day. So, I guess, that's your job then, isn't it? Being a salesman at the local fish market.«

»Maybe.« Altaїr replied ever so enigmatically as he finally shut up the music coming from his stupid phone to sit down cross-legged on the floor, his body turned towards Malik. This seemed to be quite the tick he had and, of course, Buckingham, that evil little traitor, immediately showed Malik which one of them he liked best as he crawled into Altaїr's lap right that instant. What an asshole cat. Still, Malik’s eyes were far too transfixed on Altaїr’s naked chest as he watched how it rose and fell hard now. When he would be moving it looked effortlessly but as soon as he would stop his training, the exhaustion started to show.  

»Maybe?« Malik frowned but took off his reading glasses as he leaned back further into his chair and looked at Altaїr now fully, immersed in their little chat. The boy had sparked his interest as Malik finally started to realize that it wasn't just Altaїr's job he knew nothing about. He did not even know his age or if he was legal at least! Fuck. He had just never bothered to ask. The way Altaїr behaved, the confidence he portrayed had never been cause for Malik to doubt that he would not be of legal age. 

»Well, what do you think my job could be?« Altaїr hummed and began petting Buckingham as if it was the most normal thing for some random stranger to do. They had not even talked all that much until now, as Malik had realized and this realization struck him with a sudden wave of nausea. He had given some random stranger access to his apartment after he had fucked him only two times and other than that stranger's name, he knew not a single thing about him! Was this some form of midlife crisis, maybe? Was he getting insane? All writers were bound to go crazy at some point in their lives. At least that was what he had heard. Apropos writers … he had two more weeks left to come up with an outline for his next manuscript and if he wouldn't be able to deliver he would get kicked out of that company. Haytham Kenway's words were still very much lingering in his mind and Altaїr's presence in his life did not really make it easier for him to come up with something. 

Still, his question sparked Malik's interest as he let his eyes dart over Altaїr's all too familiar body now. He was tall, almost taller than Malik but only by an inch or so. He was in good shape, his muscles well toned and hardly even the hint of a bit of extra fat on his stomach. His figure was slender despite his strict workout routine, his muscles were just visible enough but wouldn't draw the focus of anyone straight towards them. But that was only the bodily aspects  _ Malik  _ got to look at for now. What about his hands? They were strong with long, slender fingers. They weren't the hands of someone who was working on a construction site or doing any hard labor regularly. And  _ regularly  _ was the key word here because, yes, his hands were a little calloused, in fact, but not nearly enough to hint at physically demanding work. When he would go out other than to run around like a maniac or do his parkour stunts, which was all the same to Malik, he would wear thick jeans that had seen better days without question. Most of them were covered in blotches of dried paint in all different colors, some had holes in them. The only pair of jeans that he possessed which were almost pristine was a pair of dark red ones, which made Malik suspect that it wasn't his at all. On top of that, he would mostly wear loose fitting t-shirts in white, grey or black, and his beloved white hoodie. He hadn't moved in with much, though. However, to top it all off, Altaїr would usually wear a pair of dirty old sneakers. No steel capped work boots, though.

»You could be a taxi driver.« He offered with a challenging smirk but Altaїr only produced a sound as if they were stuck on some game show and Malik had just given the wrongest answer possible. 

»Negative.«

»Negative?«

»Not even close.« Altaїr grinned with that shit-eating grin Malik had learned to _like_ quite much even during those last two weeks.

Well, he was extremely flexible, he knew how to move his body, he knew how to dance. »Exotic dancer.«

Again that sound. »Nice idea, but negative.«

Thar bar. Malik could not help but think about that bar he had seen Altaїr go in after he had kissed that douchebag. And although he wanted to say that he was probably a bartender or owner of said bar, he couldn't bring himself to it. It didn't quite fit, which was all the more weird now that he came to think about it. »Maybe you are a hooker, then.«

»Close!« Altaїr laughed.

»You are probably a boring office dude, right?«

»Nothing of me is boring.« Altaїr smirked as he wiggled his eyebrows and raised his proud chin that was covered in stubbles already. 

»Well, obviously you are a cat sitter.«

»Just part time.«

»A zookeeper then.«

»There's no zoo in Biddeford, I’m afraid.«

»A lawyer.«

»Oh god no!«

»Then you have to be an artist.«

»Everything I do is art.« Well, at least that much was true, he guessed. Malik could watch him for hours on end and never get bored of it. This was dangerous. 

»Okay, I got it.« Malik finally decided as he took a deep breath. It was still early in the day and yet he felt as if he was going to fall asleep soon enough.

»Yeah? I'm all ears.«

»You are a professional burglar and work for the local mob. It's your job to get involved with poor desperate writers to charm them into submission and then steal all their money and their cats.« Which would be quite the plot for another one of his stupid Detective Becker stories, he assumed.  _ Detective Becker and the cat burglar. _ Well, he assumed, there were people who would read that crap somewhere out there.

»Well, is it working?« Altaїr grinned as he pulled Buckingham closer but Malik only rolled his eyes with a small grin creeping onto his face.  _ Maybe _ , he thought to himself, but instead of answering, he turned back to his laptop and stared at the blank page again. »You know« Altaїr started again and before Malik knew it, he stood behind him, Buckingham on his arms. He had not even heard him move, for god’s sake! »Staring at this bloody thing does not help you achieve anything.«

»And what will help me, oh wise Oracle?« Malik finally huffed as he threw a glance over his shoulder and tried to put just enough annoyance into his eyes that he would manage to get his point across. Then again, Altaїr was quite thick at times.

»Getting out of that looney bin here would help you.«

»I don't have time for going out. I have two more works before I get fired if I don’t deliver.« 

»Yeah you lament about that every morning when I blow you, which is quite irritating, I might add. So what’s the point of it?« He frowned and Malik was not even sure if he had seen him frown before. Suddenly those beautiful amber eyes looked a whole different color when he would furrow his brows like this. They were like the color of whiskey now when the sun would shine through a bottle of the delicious liquid. »Evidently, staring at your computer does nothing to help you achieve that goal so you might as well follow me and take a small glimpse into my world. How does that sound, huh? Maybe you learn to see the world just differently enough to come up with something then.«

Malik looked from Altaїr to his laptop but he knew that he was right. Hell, they both knew that and Altaїr's smug grin told him all about that too. He would probably go mad, would he stay here for longer and although he knew that he should say now, he sighed and closed the lid of his laptop. »Show me then.« He sighed and as Altaїr’s grin only widened, he lifted one finger at him and added in a low, almost threatening voice: »But don't you dare start singing  _ a whole new world _ again.« 

Maybe he did not know a thing about Altaїr. Maybe that was indeed dangerous. But maybe that was exactly what he needed.

 

**-End of Chapter 3-**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shameless plug! If you like my work, please go check out the other fics I've written (they are much more detailed and longer xD)   
> And hey, if you like Supernatural, why not check out my very first Supernatural fic? It's lovely, I swear! http://archiveofourown.org/works/12340470/chapters/28065087


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